


The Safety Dance

by StarMaamMke



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, brief appearance by El, season three trailer hot take number 34341
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 08:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaamMke/pseuds/StarMaamMke
Summary: Then the wait.And the wait.Forty minutes later, six cigarettes in, and Dr. El’s cessation rubber band all but stretched out of elasticity, Jim realized that he had been stood up.





	The Safety Dance

It had been a stupid idea, when all was said and done, and Jim Hopper felt fucking ridiculous - dominating space in that dainty, uncomfortable chair that he swore was groaning under his massive bulk. 

El told him he looked very “Magnum” in his linen jacket and Hawaiian print button up. He preened, initially, until he caught that grave look in her brown eyes, and the way one corner of her mouth twitched downwards. “Magnum” was not necessarily “Cool” or “Rad” or whatever those boneheads were teaching her nowadays. 

Teenagers. What a bunch of bastards.

Still willing to give her a chance to be discerning, Jim allowed the kid to pick out the restaurant. The one El picked out had it’s own TV ad, which was - in Jim’s opinion - the thing that really made it stand out in her mind. He really needed to curb TV time in the house. It was Summer, Owens signed off on her being more out and about, and that crap rotted brains. 

Chez Delmonico. Cloth napkins, and the longest wine list in the tri-state area. Jim didn’t have the heart to tell El that Joyce would’ve been just as happy throwing back a cold one at The Hideaway. 

_It’s her birthday, and America’s birthday, Will told me._

_Well, no, her birthday is the third, but what’s your point?_

_No one ever does anything for her birthday. She always has to work late, but now she’s not really working is she?_

_Not necessarily a good thing, kid._

_She’s special. She deserves quality service, fine cuisine, and a romantic ambiance that food critic Howard Laurence of the Indiana Star rated–_

_If I ask her will you stop quoting that stupid commercial to me?_

She did, so Jim asked. He could hear Joyce’s awkward hesitancy in the long, breathy pause, and he immediately wanted to backpedal. But she said yes, and the second she said yes, he felt his stomach perform the same back flips it had years upon years before, when he asked her to the Spring Formal. So, he got spruced up - trimmed his mustache, threw on his best Come Hither cologne - picked up a birthday card (nothing flowery, but not exactly funny, just your basic cake on the front, greeting in the middle sort of thing), and headed over to the fanciest place Hawkins had to offer. Judging by the name, Jim imagined they either offered both crepes and meatballs, or they were being pretentious.

They were being pretentious, but Jim thanked his lucky stars that they were an actual, honest-to-goodness steakhouse. Small blessings, and a slab of meat he hoped the chef would just introduce to an oven before bringing it back to him with an order of french fries. 

Then the wait.

And the wait.

Forty minutes later, six cigarettes in, and Dr. El’s cessation rubber band all but stretched out of elasticity, Jim realized that he had been stood up. 

_Hold tight to your pride and do not investigate._

_… Unless something is wrong. Then go in guns blazing. Joyce might need you._

_Things have been quiet, she’s just being Flaky Old Joyce. Let her sit at home._

_Go._

“I’m going,” Jim announced to no one in particular before corking, and surreptitiously sliding the bottle of Cabernet he had ordered into the inside pocket of his sport coat. He stood, paused, and then thought Joyce might also like new glassware, so he walked off with those as well. Even if she was being a flake, she still deserved something nice on her birthday. 

Her car was the only vehicle in her driveway when he pulled up in his Blazer. Dusk had begun to settle in, and the lights were on in the house. He didn’t bother to knock, and - much to his annoyance - she hadn’t bothered to lock the front door.

“How many fucking ti–”

The first thing he noticed was the pile of brochures advertising various realtors littering the coffee table. Then the sad little plate of Spaghetti-Os being pushed around aimlessly by a fork. Then the woman holding the fork, and the haunted, teary-eyed look on her face as she raised her eyes to acknowledge him, her chin quivering. He set the wine and the glasses onto the table and silently began to pour with an unsteady hand. 

“Don’t hate me,” she pleaded in a small, broken voice.

“Happy birthday. Don’t leave me.” 

He didn’t know where the last bit came from, only that he said it, so it must have come from somewhere, but there wasn’t anytime to think because the floodgates were open, and she was sobbing into her hands. He was at her side in an instant, so quick he hadn’t even felt his body move, nor clocked the moment his brain had willed it to do so. Her head tucked under his chin like it was meant to be, and her body curled against his side as he pulled her onto his lap, and pressed kisses against her sweet-smelling hair. 

“I got you, Joyce. You’re safe.” 

She felt like home, and as his arms tightened around her small, trembling frame, he knew he’d leave the whole world bleeding to help her feel the same.


End file.
